Bad Touch
by FanSlewFantasy
Summary: Antonio, in the throes of unrequited love, unwisely seeks help from Francis in relation to a particular Italian he is having issues with. France has an exquisite plan to fix the problem, but he doesn't tell Antonio this. YAOI, M, ONESHOT. DL;DR xoxox


**~BAD TOUCH~  
><strong>A Hetalia Axis Powers Fanfiction * Presented by FanSlewFantasy 2011_  
>SpainxRomano feat. France+Prussia *<em>**R18***  
>SOFT NON-CON~ANGST ~HEAVY PETTING ~ROMANCE~FRANCE<p>

…

"Antonio Fernandez Carriedo." Francis pented his fingers and gazed over the table at the dark haired man seated opposite him. "I'm very disappointed in you."

"I know." the man in question hung his head accordingly and made quite a point of looking remorseful. "But its not my fault, I swear."

Francis however was quite convinced that actually, it was totally Antonio's fault,

With a disapproving frown, he regarded his best friend. The usually bright man, decked in jeans and a low neck tee boasting some incomprehensible slogan or another, looked surprisingly dull. His normally rebellious black-brown hair was unbrushed and growing out, his bright smiling eyes behind the reflective lenses of cheap-actually-but-really-expensive-looking sunglasses seemed to radiate a soft puppy misery that Francis could sense more than he could see. Even his skin, usually smooth and tanned, was washed out. He had a small cast of spots on his chin that had been picked at. The one on the edge of his bottom lip looked more like a cold-sore, but Francis wasn't going to say anything because Herpes, in his eyes, were very serious business.

Very serious indeed.

He sniffed and crossed his legs under the table, weary of giving the same speech every time Antonio went into funk mode on account of his ex-charge. So far, Antonio had been like this on and off for oh… a century? Every four or five weeks, when his testosterone cycle peaked and the rut of horniness, apathy and depression reached a dismal climax, Francis was left to nurse the carnage. what had at first been the occasional hour long heart to heart, the symptoms easily mended by a pep-talk and a glass of wine, had evolved into a three or four day thing of mood-swings and acne and snarky, short humour that frankly, Francis found abrasive. Fortunately, perhaps unfortunately (it was hard to tell), when the course of irritation had run, Antonio retained no real recollection. Rose tinted glasses back in place, Francis doubted grimly if the bubbly Spaniard even _noticed_ he was PMSing all over the place quite regularly, or if he was just living under the conviction that every random occasion he fell slightly unwell. Headachy, tired… and all those other delightful things that come from eating something a little past its use-by date.

Something had to be done. He knew it.

"No, you don't know! I told you last time. You aren't going to simply wake up one morning and find him in your bed! You must do something!"

"Don't yell at me Francis!" Antonio's shame gave way to a dangerous, sharp tongued warning, and his dull misery was replaced briefly by a flare of anger. "I'm not a kid!"

"Well you're acting like it!" Francis laid it flatly on the table in a voice a little louder than he had intended. The small huddle of people nursing coffees and cakes and chattering happily at tables around them ceased their conversations for a moment to stare at the pissy blonde giving what looked like a scowling, sulking teenager a telling to, before returning to their drinks. Antonio hissed through his teeth and reached for his half drunken mint coffee frappe. Francis knew he should probably tell his friend to lay off the full cream when he was on his aggression-cycle, but didn't want his balls torn off and thrust down his neck. If Antonio got fat, that was his own fault.

"Whatever."

The spoon clinked on the glass when Antonio fished it from his drink and dug a sizeable lashing of the choco-mint decorated whip off the top for eating. His glasses slipped down his nose and when some of the cream missed his mouth entirely and spattered on his top, he swore. Something about hating all mankind and the world in general.

Francis wondered, not for the first time, if the county of Spain was, at this moment, experiencing unseasonable storms or unusual natural disasters. He had never seen Antonio so bad before, and the last time he had come close the Spanish parliament house had suffered a small fire and there was a day of inexplicable drizzle in the middle of June. Although, whether or not that was a coincidence Francis couldn't be 100% sure.

"Antonio…" the Frenchman rubbed his bearded chin, exasperated and weary. "Don't be like this…"

"Like what? I'm not being like anything. You are just being a heartless dick."

"What do you want me to do then, mon ami? What can I possibly do to help? I can't force him to sleep with you."

The bitter expression on Antonio's face stirred guilty recollections of all the times Francis had tried to force a younger, more naïve Romano to sleep with _him_. He cleared his throat awkwardly and combed his hair back off his face.

"I mean to say, it's a different thing, forcing someone to sleep with someone else. Much more… dif-"

"I don't want him to be forced!" fed up, Antonio threw his coffee spoon down on the table and stood. The chair he had been sitting on grated on the cobbles, he jammed a hand in his pocket and withdrew a handful of euros to a value much higher than the cost of his coffee and Francis sparkling Grape juice. "Fuck you, Francis. You're no help." The handful of coins were cast onto the table as well, and before Francis could fully register the fact that his usually boisterous and cheerful companion had just sworn at his face, Antonio was gone, slouching off and tugging his slightly too-tight jeans up over his hips as he went. Francis noted dully that the Spaniards sandals were broken, the back strap of his left one trailing behind him and the sole slapping gracelessly over hot stone as he stalked down the street and disappeared into the small bustle of Thursday morning city dwellers on their tea break.

He sighed and signalled for the waiter to bring his bill.

Antonio's money glinted scattered across the table glinted in the sunlight.

…

_Lovino_

The boys image plagued him more than anything he had ever experienced, Black death included, and as Antonio wove through the small by of the seaside town Francis favoured for their coffee sharing he wondered once again if he should invite the young Italian to his house for dinner. Maybe he would make the gazpacho Lovi favoured, and after that cinnamon ice cream. And even later than that…

Antonio sniffed and shook his head, refusing to think about what he was quite convinced he would never, ever attain. He pushed his reflective sunnies up the bridge of his nose and hooked one finger through the belt loop near the fly of his jeans. He paid no heed to the curious looks he was earning from frenchwomman unaccustomed to seeing such an exotic, dark-skinned man in their humble, off the map town, or the men that accompanied them labelling him silently as 'latino trash' on a summer lark from mexico.

But he did feel their scrutiny, and licked his cracked lips uncomfortably as he come to stop at a zebra crossing. Maybe, he thought, he should have washed the shirt he was wearing after all. It smelt quite strongly of sweat and pasta sauce, and was probably responsible for the strangers edging cautiously around him as though they might be poisoned if they drew to close.

The light switched and traffic drew to a halt. He gave himself a discreet sniff as he crossed the road and drew the conclusion that he _definitely_ should have washed the shirt.

Oh well, it was too late now. And Francis hadn't noticed, so it couldn't have been that bad. Unless Francis was just being polite, and saying nothing.

Antonio frowned at the thought of polite Francis, and made his way toward the train station by the shopping centre.

Ah Francis… he wondered if he should feel bad, for being so short with a man who had really only been trying to help. Although, in actuality, his help was about as useful as a head full of fire ants.

He clicked his tongue, his phone in his pocket began vibrating and the muffled thrum of Dani fiesta alerted him that there was a new message from Lovino impatiently awaiting his reply.

_Tonio. Need 250€ for new iPod, dropped mine in gutter. Can you send?_

Antonio pressed his lips together and stopped walking to type the reply.

_Why did you drop your iPod in the gutter? And why should I give you money to replace it? im not a bank you know._

With that sent, Antonio made a mental note to stop off at an ATM before he got on the train home that evening. He couldn't really afford to give Lovino 250€, but was more or less resigned to the fact it was going to happen regardless.

_I crashed my vespa and it fell out of my pocket._

Was the response. There was not even an attempt made to beg the money from the Spaniard. Lovino on the other end knew as well as his benefactor that the cash was as good as in his hand.

Antonio didn't bother to reply.

…

At the other end of the line, Lovio was sprawled on Antonio's couch, shirtless in cut off jeans, wearing Broad lensed sunglasses despite the fact he was inside. there was some music playing, a CD by some Portuguese (?) artist he had found in the plastic muzakshak bag on the table, and chucked into the stereo when he had let himself in. There were grazes up the front of his legs from where he had fallen from his ride, but he was too hot to care. The windows were open, and the ceiling fan was rotating lazily.

He cast his phone on the coffee table and pushed his glasses up onto his head.

Lovino Vargas didn't make a habit of stopping by _Espana_s villa uninvited, but sometimes it just… sometimes he felt like it. It was as simple as that. Antonio was always bright and happy, always eager to please and he was _familiar_. Safe and pleasant and his house smelt comforting and as much as lovino hated to admit it, he loved everything about the building and the warmth and protection it promised. When long hard days turned to depressingly tedious nights, or when Feliciano's constant chattering about Ludwig and pasta and other such crap became to much, he found solace in the old wood and stone floors and the simple, delicious food that equally simple, smiling Spain was always more than happy to supply. Maybe, on some secret and perverse level, he genuinely enjoyed the attention paid to him when he was here. Although he tried not to think on it.

It was unusual though, he thought, eyes trained on the slow swish of the ceiling fan blades as the cut the dry, hot air, for Spain to be gone for so long. When Romano had shown up that morning no-one had answered the door, and still, five hours later, no-one had come to the house with jingling keys and a brown paper bag of groceries or CDs or maybe even a handful of churros bundled in napkins and generously coated in sugar.

It was weird, he considered texting the man again, to see where he was at, but decided against it. He didn't want to come off desperate, did he? Instead of worrying he reached for the scatter of Spanish celebrity gossip magazines Spain kept on the rack of his coffee table. Antonio did like his crappy celebrity magazines all right.

Lovino slapped at a mosquito on his chest and flicked to the contents page of _Hola!_ Absent mindedly. The fan swished, the CD changed tracks and somewhere, in a small coffee shop somewhere by the border of France and Germany, trouble was brewing.

…

"What do you want?" Gilbert looked pissed. Not pissed in his usual, drunk off his face on a Friday night pissed either. That rare and dangerous 'I was finally about to get some from Roderich and then YOU showed up' kind of pissed that France only ever saw when he had interrupted the reaping of the small (but apparently juicy,) fruits of the albinos unusual courting labours.

Francis pressed his lips together and gave the proud, obnoxious Prussian a significant look.

"I have, as Arthur would so eloquently say, a cunning plan." He divulged. "It pertains to the situation of darling Antonio, and involves much debauchery, a little bit of betrayal and some sneaking I would not entrust to anyone else. Are you in?"

Gilbert, who had fair been won over at the mention of the word 'debauchery' held up his finger in a wait a second gesture and dug around in his jeans pocket for his cellphone.

"Let me just text specs and tell him I won't be seeing him tonight after all."

France knew better than to smirk at the pet name, and settled for nursing his low-fat frappichino instead.

He blew on the surface, breath fluttering small ripples across the smooth brown liquid brimming at the edge of his cup. His eyes narrowed, lit with his own special glimmer of classy depravity as he reflected once again on the plan he had conjured in the brief half hour since Antonio had stormed his way away.

"Yes…" he murmured, eyes flicking to the ass of a curvy barista clearing unoccupied tables. "Excellent…"

…

Antonio decided, just as Francis had predicted he would, to stop by a bar on his way, instead of heading straight back home. There were a few, once he had crossed the Spanish border, before he reached Madrid. The evening was young; the air was stiff and hot. Spain wasn't a big drinker, but every now and then, he did enjoy the odd snifter or two to drown the sorrows. Life always looked a little less grim after a decent go at some Licor 43.

"One Ebrolito, thanks." He asked the barkeep, a slim, heavily breasted woman with ringlets and a clever look about her.

"one? Are you sure you're old enough to be drinking, kid?"

Antonio produced is passport, she checked it suspiciously, and reluctantly proceeded to serve him his drink. It was expensive, Antonio realised that if he wanted any more, he would have to put them on his credit card. The thought didn't please him, so he decided that instead he would just have to make this one last.

Without bothering to give the bar girl a smile (what a rude man, she decided), Antonio edged around the slowly filling dance floor and settled in a booth beside one of the frosted windows. Happy hour was starting, the sun was preparing to set and the twinkle of street lights just beginning to glimmer and glint in the wine coloured air. They looked strange broken by the ghostly panes of window, winking teasingly and distracting Antonio from the taste of his drink. He found himself instead reflecting on the colours of the evening, how it was almost identical to the caramel gold threads cobwebbed through the murky green of Lovi's beautiful, gingerly lashed eyes.

He glanced at his watch and decided it was definitely way too late to call the Italian after all. Instead he decided he would go home, microwave some frozen lasagne or something, and then jack off into his dirty shirt until he fell asleep. Maybe, in the morning he would feel better. He could do some laundry then, and start cooking as soon as he stood up, so that he could invite Lovino for dinner then instead.

The faintest of faint smiles turned his lips. Antonio was unaware that hormone high tide was receding again, and the idea of tomorrow began nervously filtering his heart with subtle hope once more. After all, there was always tomorrow, wasn't there? There would always be another day for him to make Lovino fall in love with him. He would work as hard as he could; do all he could, every day of his life if he had to. Because he knew that the reward in the end would be worth it.

Lovino's full, downward turned lips. His neat, almost invisible freckles and thick rich hair, scented like cranberries and of that obscure, darker-than-chocolate-brown-and-redder-than-auburn-but-somehow-not-quite-a-blend-of-the-two colour that eluded description… Antonio hoped so desperately to touch them. To caress and hold and love them. And love him too. From the crown of his head all the way down to the perfect pointed tips of his toes. Antonio wanted to positively drown in the perfection that was waif-like, glimmering Lovino. His smell was imprinted on his soul; his face was the thing Antonio saw every time he blinked. And as people poured into the bar, and Antonio sunk further into thoughts on Lovino, things began to feel a little better. His misery faded. His shoulders lost their pitiful slump.

Soon, he was thinking of things much less innocent than his Lovi's smile. His imagination wandered down crooked, perverse paths, fantasies he rarely indulged except late at night when, during the bloom of his love (usually occurring about two weeks before his down period) he fisted himself for hours to images in his head.

Lov sinking into a cool, sweet bath of milk. The white liquid rivuleting over pale golden skin and trickling glossily into every crevasse more than water would. Lov eating a churro in the perfect, sexy way that always reminded Antonio of fellatio. Tongue licking to test the heat, before exceptionally designed dick sucking lips descended and Lovino showed that snack heaven before he bit off its end.

Even the boy in his maids dress, the pale old one stashed in Spain's closet that by now would be much too small for him always made Antonio mad with lust. Imagine the skirt on him, barely covering his hips. The blouse tied by chords across an exotically slim waist and endless legs, feet strapped in polished black sandals like a good little whore.

Forget the t-shirt, Antonio wondered if perhaps he should go home and jack into the dress. But then, what if he couldn't get it clean?

This question arose, and he recalled why he had never done such a thing earlier. Sighing, now horny, Antonio sipped his drink and glanced at his phone again. No more messages from Lovi. No messages from Francis either. He wondered if maybe he should ring and apologise for his tantrum earlier. What had come over him? Seriously?

As the half hour turned to the o'clock, and the evening dropped to dark, Antonio relaxed more and more, to the point ere the smell of his own shirt was actually embarrassing him, and he desperately wanted a shower. This was a good sign. By the time he finished his drink, he really did feel much better. A glance at his watch said eight thirty, and he realised if he wanted to get home that night he would need to hurry, as the last train left at nine. This meant that he would be back at his house and hopefully in bed by eleven.

Timing worked perfectly then, he decided, leaving his glass on the bar and weaving through crowds to the door.

…

Gilbert knocked firmly on Spain's door, and Francis lingering behind him stuck a tube of breath freshener around in front of his mouth. He pulled a face, and knocked it away.

"Fuck off."

He creased his brow and knocked the door again.

Francis had been 90% sure, after Gilbert had told him Feliciano had been living with them for the past week, that Lovino would be here, in Madrid, as opposed to staying in the lonely old villa he shared with his brother at home. Anyone who knew Lovino well (regretfully not him, but Spain had told him plenty), knew that the kid disliked being alone. Even his inherent 'dislike' for Antonio was not enough of a deterrent when it came to his lust for company. And of course, wanting to get shit done as soon as possible so he could get back to Roderich, Gilbert had pulled some strings and gotten them there in almost impossible time. The two men were game, and neither could deny they ere a little excited. A bit.

After three minutes of waiting, Gilbert hammered again.

"He's not there." He commented flatly, and France shook his head.

"Impossible. He must be there. I'm-"

The door clocked open and a suspicious, narrowed eye peered out. It was easy recognisable as one of Lovino's, even if the rest of his body was hidden behind the door. France beamed and Gilbert sniffed, stepping aside to let his blonde companion sweet talk his way in.

"Bonjour Lovino!" the greasy tone in his voice made Gilbert feel dirty, but for some reason it always worked in the past and so, he gave Francis benefit of the doubt. "How are you this fine evening?"

"'Tonio isn't home." Romano wasn't taken in. he had learned the hard way that when Francis asked him how he was, attempted rape was imminent.

"Nonsense, Lov." The sound of that name spoken by _anyone_ other than his ex-caregiver always ruffled Lovino's feathers wrong. "We aren't here to see Antonio, we are here to see you!" Francis gestured excitedly. "May we come in."

"No."

Lovino went to close the door, and it was gilberts turn. Lightning fast reflexes and stunning strength for such a slim man, he jammed the door open and shoved it wide so the two could enter. Lovino was knocked backward, he swore loudly, and Gilbert apologised carelessly.

"Sorry, but we are coming in anyway."

They did so. And Romano dusted himself off, scowling and thoroughly unimpressed.

"What do you want?" he hissed. "I was kind of asleep before you guys interrupted!"

France shrugged and traipsed through the foyer. "yes, yes… has Antonio got any wine here, or…" Gilbert sent him a _stay on task, dumbass_ look, and he dropped his sentence. Even though wine would probably help with what they were about to do.

"Never mind." He removed his light silk blazer, revealing a clingy, pale blue crew neck. "Are you going to invite us into the sitting room? Or are we going to linger here?"

Lemon sucking expression firmly in place, Lovino lead the two men down the hall to the darkening room he had previously occupied. He had fallen into a doze there, and was yet to draw the curtains or turn on the light. He did so, and gestured rudely for the others to sit.

"You two can stay here then. I'm going to bed now." He rubbed his bare shoulders, the singlet he had slipped on earlier that evening, when the temperature dropped, felt much to revealing a thing for him to comfortably wear around Francis. The rosary beads around his neck were slick with sweat, as was the nape of his neck. He didn't intend to actually go to sleep of course, it was only nine thirty, but no way was he going to accompany the two house crashers. Their business was with Antonio and Lovino wanted nothing to do with it.

"Oh no." France shook his head and seized Romano's hand. "no no no no no my love. You aren't going _anywhere_."

…

Antonio was humming as he wandered up his drive, dirty shirt cast over his shoulder, the warmth of summer evening in Spain grazing his skin. The air smelled of churros, the all night market down the road from his house bustled. All was well in his world once more.

He dug around in his pocket for his keys, upon reaching the front door, and found them in the back of his wallet. Which was unusual. But he didn't make a fuss. The keyrings a large cushy tomato, a metallic gonadolla and a plastic tag with a photo of him and roma on their holiday to costa rica, clinked and jingled. He stuck the key in the door and was a little surprised when the door swung straight in, as though he had totally forgotten to lock it that morning, in his funk.

Raising his eyebrows, he sidled straight in and locked the door behind him.

Then he caught sight of the white Gucci overnight bag cast carelessly on the small table in his entry hall. He knew of only two men with high Class Mode travel-ware, and Francis wouldn't be caught dead with anything that ever tactless America had accidently pronounced 'gucky' on more than one occasion. He didn't like being the brunt of the many jokes that had ensued, and hence, had forsaken Italian labels in general.

Only his Romanito, was so proud.

"Roma?" he slipped off his tatty chucks and cast his shirt on the floor. "_Are you home?"_

No reply.

How… unusual.

…

"You shit eating cunts! Let me motherfucking go fuck I swear to god I will fucking blow your faces right of your bastard cunt heads i-"

"Gilbert, shut him up please."

Gilbert sighed and looked around for something to gag the slight, thrashing Italian he was single handedly restraining. Francis was impressed with the Prussian's strength, and the mildly disinterested expression he wore whilst doing so, and wondered why he had never asked Gilbert's help with matters such as this in the past. He would do so in the future, if such force was required.

"Tonio will kill you! I will ensure that he rips your heads off and spits down your sordid unclefucking necks! If you so much as touch me-!" Lovino was silenced by Francis's scarf thrust into his mouth. He screwed up his face and tried to scream, to no effect.

Why did his life suck so goddamned much?

Rolling his eyes, as though he didn't actually want to engage the young man in intercourse at all, Francis began unbuttoning his shirt, eyes raking the boy bound by Gilbert's firm forearms. Lovino had had a decent go at the bared white skin, angry red scratches webbed the flesh and some were even bleeding. Gilbert didn't seem bothered though. He settled back on the sofa and notched his face calmly on the side of Romano's neck. A muffled complaint through the scarf, he sniffed shortly and shifted his arms so as to pivot one slender Italian leg wide open.

"Calm down, kid. Trust me, you will thank us for this later."

Lovino sincerely doubted it, but no mater how hard he jerked and fought the steal mechanical grip he was in could not be broken. He suspected, if Gilbert so wished, he could have easily tightened his arms and snapped him clean in half. It was not a pleasant thought, actually, almost as unpleasant as Francis, naked now (_he's attractive, oh god Lovino don't look!)_ and regarding the two on the sofa calmly and pleasantly.

"So, how are we going to do this?" he asked. "Want a turn, Gil?"

"I do, but I'm pretty sure Roderich would kill me. Besides, I'm not keen for sloppy seconds. You knock yourself out."

Lovino of course, was not allowed an opinion on the matter. He squealed as loud as he could when France crouched between his pried open legs and began fumbling with the clasp on his jeans. Gentle, moisturised hands brushed over the scabby lacerations on his shins from earlier, and crept up to tug trousers down. They slipped off easily, and pooled on the ground with a shushing denim crinkle.

"Cute knickers." France smiled quite friendlily at them, cotton and pale duckling yellow. Gilbert hummed in agreement, thinking the colour reminded him of gilbird, and kissed the side of Lovino's neck. The victim jumped, tears beginning to prickle the rims of his eyes. Gilbert's mouth was warm and considerate. It was unnerving, considering the situation.

He thought back, with a painful pang, on the time when he was a teenager and Gilbert had invited him on a date. It had been a very gracious gesture, very romantically done, and yet Romano had begged Spain to get him out of it. He didn't _like_ the white roses Gilbert gave him, or the cherries, or the necklace. He didn't want the man like that, and for some reason he couldn't understand and even partially hated himself for, he regretted it maybe, just a little bit. It must hurt, to be turned down by someone, and it must be degrading to have that someone's parent figure tell them to leave the doorstep and never come back, under penalty of heavy artillery.

Although Gilbert had long since forgotten his short period of obsession with Italia south, it was something Romano had never really gotten over. Kind of like all the times Francis had tried it on with him over the years. Except Francis had a tendency to be a lot less affable.

Spain had helped him then, too. His protector and gardian. Damnit, Spain was Romano's wall! He was the one thing Lovino depended on as much as the air he breathed and the food he ate. And where was the man now? Why wasn't he there to help?

His eyes widened when the front door of the house creaked, and heavy, familiar footsteps creaked old floorboards in the hallway ever so lightly.

"Roma?" his voice echoed like the voice of an angel. "_Are you home?"_

Heavy his body, Lovino almost, almost, made it out of Gilbet's arms. France arched his eyebrows, head cocked to hear what was going on, and made a shushing gesture with his finger pressed to his lips. Lovino tried to whine, but made little sound.

In the hallway, Spain lingered, listening for a noise. He heard nothing and sighed, deciding that if Lovino was here, he must be asleep.

With that, he ambled into the kitchen and went about making and sandwich. His every footstep, every cupboard he slammed, echoed loudly through the wall in the room where Francis, Gilbert, and Lovino were. A devilish smile lilted the lips of the Frenchman. A chill settled in Romano's spine.

"Well…" Francis whispered, lifting the hem of Lovino's singlet and raking his fingers along his tummy. "Looks like we are going to have to be silent, oui?" his fingers hooked the elastic of underwear peaking above the waistband of old loose jeans. "Unless you want Antonio to see how much of a whore you are, that is." Francis hand ghosted the hot, stirring bundle between Lovino's legs. "Imagine what he would say, if he walked in only to see you letting his two best friends fuck you…"

Gilbert stroked Lovino's arm and reckless, Francis's hand dipped down the front of those jeans. The button popped open and hot, glassy tears scalded tomato pink cheeks when the fingers pried and prodded, finding the base of Lovino's manhood and withdrawing it to look. Blue eyes widened, Gilbert made and interested hum and Lovino thrashed again, beyond humiliated. The sofa creaked a little, and in the kitchen, Spain's ears pricked. The cracker clutched between his lips wavered a little; he rubbed his eyebrow, heard noting else suspicious and carried on pealing the plastic off a slice of processed cheese.

"Wow.." Francis sighed softly in awe, studying the exposed part of the slim, Italian body before him. "You are really pretty…"

And Francis, having seen a fair few sets of genitals, was not lying.

The flat camber of white that was Lovino's pubic bone was perfectly taught, Francis could see, as could Gilbert and as humiliatingly knew Lovi himself, that the young Italian took meticulous of care of his vital regions. A perfectly neat, soft nest of fine auburn bore his smooth, soft skinned cock regally. Not one curl out of place, the sweet scent of sandalwood and rose soap brought a hungry flush to the height of Francis' cheekbones. Gilbert traced Lovino's soft jaw line, twirling his finger cautiously in the curl he suspected, if Lovino was anything like Roderich, would immediately get the fellows privates to stand to attention.

It worked, and this time Lovino managed to make a proper noise. His gut heaved and he wondered if he was going to throw up. The shiver down his spine was ice cold and mutinous, but arousing. His heart leapt, because if he was too loud, Spain might hear him. Spain… oh Spain.

He thought achingly, longingly of Antonio. Begging with karma or god or whoever was out there to send the Spaniard through to save him from these two men, he closed his eyes and uttered a thousand frantic prayers. But more than that… he was praying not to be saved.

Imagine Antonio seeing him in this state? Weak and defeated and utterly exposed to the men who were meant to be Spain's best friends. He felt dirty. Miserable. Like a filthy unclean whore… his grip on Gilbert tightened, feeling dizzy and short of breath. His back hurt…

"What's wrong Lovino?" Francis asked, stroking the mans dick loosely. "You look upset."

Lovino tossed his head and arched his back in protest. Francis brushed his lips over the tip of his dick. He chuckled.

"Very well then, Romano… if you want me to stop I will."

Gilbert kissed Lovino's neck some more. Teary, bloodshot hazel eyes locked with seductive crystal blue ones.

"lets strike a deal."

…

Spain finished up making his sandwich and placed it on a plate before popping it in the microwave. He keyed in thirty seconds, just long enough to crisp up the bacon, and rinsed his hands in the sink and the machine began wiring. He jumped almost a foot in the air when a thump from the parlour next door echoed through the house.

"Lovinitio?" he dropped the towel he was using to wipe his hands and dashed into the hallway and down a door. "_Lov is that you? are you o-_" his sentence dropped when, upon opening the door, the room was deserted.

Well that was odd.

Antonio tried to contain the leap of excitement his heart made when he saw that Lovino had definitely been here. There was a crumpled can of redbull on the coffee table, and his magazines were in disarray. That being said, the emptiness now was somewhat… unnerving. He glanced over his shoulder, saw nothing, and switched off the light that Lovino had been forgetful enough to leave on. The open window on the other side of the room escaped him, but that was probably a good thing.

Still a little concerned, Antonio ignored the microwave beeping his sandwich to completion and headed to the stairs in the hall. Maybe he would check, see if Lovino was really home or if he had just stopped by and left without cleaning up. It wouldn't surprise him.

The floorboards creaked underfoot as Spain wandered down the hall to his beloved's old bedroom. He knocked first, an old habit, and upon nudging the door open was surprised to see it just as empty as the sitting room had been.

Now, he was beginning to get a bit paranoid.

"Hello?" although Antonio didn't quite understand why, he called anyway. It wasn't as though he expected any home intruder or such like to call back with a cheerful 'how do you do? I'm just flossing, be out in a tick'. Sure enough, there was no reply. An anxious chill settled in his spine.

He may be an immortal nation, but simplistic Antonio was not immune to fear.

"Is anybody there?"

He rounded the corner and approached his own bedroom. It was dark down the hall, and the door had been left ajar…

By the time he reached his door he was running flat out. He rocketed into his room and locked the door firmly behind him, before hammering on the lights and lunging onto his bed.

He was very glad no-one was around to see that.

Spain slept in a plain, comforting room filled with photos and plants and rich with the smell of cinnamon. His bed was low and his blankets cottagey hand knitted patchwork affairs that Lovino had always called ugly. Old uniforms, dusty and precious, were stashed in a single elegant closet by the window. There was a black and white television on top of his drawer chest.

Sighing, safe in his abode, Spain flicked on the television and pulled his phone out of his pocket, to call Lovino and make sure he was safe. Of course, he reassured himself as the phone rang, he would be. Lovino carried a gun in his boot and his attitude would ensure that against any human aggressors he would be unbeatable. But still, Spain worried for the kid. His non-appearance was somewhat… unnerving.

There was no answer though, and biting his lip, heart racing a tad, Spain hung up.

He yelped, embarrassingly high pitched and loud, when someone, no, some_thing_, tapped feebly on his bedroom door.

"w-who is it?" eyes fixed on the door, he edged along his room to his closet, hand splayed and groping for some kind of weapon or tool or large blunt object. He found his old sword hitched in the tatty old conquistador getup on the back of the door, and drew it with a metallic schlick. The weight was comforting.

"… Its me, 'tonio."

The Spaniard dropped his sword in surprise.

"Lovino?" he scampered to the door and unlocked it hurriedly. "_You are here? Oh thank god. Why didn't you answer your… are you okay?"_

The young boy on the other side of the door didn't look very good at all.

Teary, endless eyes glistened in the frame of light cast through the bedroom door. His hair was rumpled, his clothes in disarray. Scabbed wounds scaled the front of his shins and arms clutched protectively around his chest were trembling. But despite this, he smiled faintly, expression melting entirely when locking eyes with the flustered, besotted Spaniard.

"Spain…"

Antonio froze, totally lost in foreign territory when recklessly Lovino threw his arms around his waist and clutched him tight. To astonished to respond, he stood there with his arms rigid and his sword dangling helplessly by his side. Lovino squeezed as hard as he could, burying his face in Antonio's neck. He smelled like he hadn't showered for the past three days… like sweat and sunbaked earth and spicy tomatoes. His hair smelled like dark honey and brown sugar.

As a nation, there wasn't much Romano was sure of in relation to his existence. Anything could change… new years brought new wars, new nations brought new relations… new experiences brought an onslaught of painful understanding and panic that couldn't be contained or suppressed, no matter how hard he tried to rationalise when those _bastards_ made their way out that goddamned window.

But there was one thing. One thing he knew, one thing he could always eternally count on. And as tacky and cringe-worthy as it was, as utterly clichéd and overused as it sounded… that thing was Spain. It was the care and support of his caregiver; it was the unconditional love that this damn man had always thrust own his throat.

Lovino sniffed and nuzzled, savouring the sweet warm skin he favoured, feeling at home and content against the body of the man who had cradled him since he was only small trough nightmares and pleasant dreams and sickness and through health… stunned, Antonio lifted a hand to rub Lovino's shoulder blades.

They stood like so for a little while.

…

"_Why wont you tell me what happened_?" Antonio cast the warm cloth, dirty with crusted blood and gravel, on his side table, hand running lightly over the unwounded back of Lovino's shin. The muscles were tight beneath rich bronze skin, fine hairs tickled his palm and Lovi shook his head firmly.

"It's nothing. I just fell off my scooter, I told you."

"You fell off your scooter… so you came to my house and hugged me?" Spain had plenty of reason not to believe it. He glanced at the man lying on his bed questioningly, insolent hazel eyes gazed back. Sighing, he pushed Romano's leg aside and stood. "I don't understand you Lov."

The other man grumbled, and rolled over onto his side, back to Spain. Antonio clicked his tongue.

"Well, I'm having a shower. You can sleep in my bed tonight, and I will take yours, okay. _See you in the morning_."

He patted Lovino's head affectionately and was just about to leave when a vice like grip jerked him back, he landed on the bed with a strange urk sound, and his head collided with the wooden bedframe.

"No!" Lovino was wide eyed and desperate, the thought of being left alone again turned blood to ice in his veins. "Don't leave me! _Please don't leave me alone tonight_."

What if Francis came back? Besides, they had a deal. There were things he had to… do tonight. Duties to perform… he needed the Spaniard there to do them.

Antonio blinked in dumb shock.

"But…" he finally found some words and strung them together. "I smell."

Lovino scrunched his eyes and shook his head.

"I don't care! Stay with me!"

And that was how the two men ended up in bed, the lights off, the cool blue light of the television set casting slick dancing shadows in the crumples and wrinkles of duvets and sheets. Antonio tried not to get to excited, with Lovino curled against his side. He channel surfed as a distraction, flicking from one show to the next. Gameshow, soap opera, gameshow, porn, gameshow, gameshow…

Late night television sucked.

Finally, he settled on a gameshow and muted the sound in the hopes Lovino might sleep. Although he knew he certainly would not. He could feel breath on his chest, he could smell Lovino's perfume… his dick was so incredibly hard he wondered if he would need to go to the doctors for it, in the morning. And even though he wouldn't look directly, he could feel the younger mans eyes on him, glassy and dark in the flurid semi-light, half cast and endless.

Slim fingers worked across his chest. He jumped, tearing unfocused eyes from the television screen, and gripped those exploritive fingers where they stood.

"What do you think you are doing?"

"I want to be close to you."

Antonio hesitated, the question 'who are you and what have you done to my Lov,' rose to the surface of his mind.

Lovino took a deep, brave breath and tipped his head forward, forehead resting on Antonio's chest. The soft flush he hid was hot and needy, yet also vulnerable. He hoped it wouldn't give away his terrified heart.

"_I need you."_

Antonio decided that for the time being he didn't care who this person was. He looked like lovino, and that was good enough in the short term. He had his head bowed and his cheeks pink, he had those maddening eyes and lips that looked like they may just melt agains t skin. And the plea, 'I need you,' , spoken in Spanish, no less, would have driven a stronger man than him to a complete faint when all the blood n their body surged into their crotch.

"… okay."

Rustily, blankly, he moved forward and the two met in a clumsy, astonished first kiss.

Lovino, frankly, wasn't impressed.

His heartbeat, a terrific thunder of anticipation, lapsed for a moment, the anxious tension in his shoulders eased. He had been so nervous… not the France kind of nervous, the good kind, and things were not going as passionately as he had anticipated. Shell shocked Antonio kissed like a dead fish.

Disappointed, the Italian pulled back and peered at his partner.

"…Antonio?"

"Huh?" Spain, too far away in dreams-come-true-topia, barely heard him, let alone made sense of the words.

"What's wrong? Don't you want me?"

At the prospect of having his delightful treat withdrawn, Antonio was jerked back to earth, landing in the bed with a metaphorical thump and shocking awareness of what was going on. Lovino. In bed with him. Giving the invitation to…

The man gave into the hot blood he was known for, passion flowering vivid and lush in his vision and inspiring fires of lust in bottle green eyes. His shoulders fanned aggressively as he moved forth, pinning the other down and raking a hand raggedly through silky hair, and the inflamed Spanish kiss that Lovino had expected was delivered with three times as much power and heat as he could ever have dreamed. Wide eyed, pressed into the mattress and suddenly having his mouth ravaged by another mans tongue, a curious melting sensation began to creep into the hook base of his spine. It was lethargic and rich, a seductive sauntering sweetness permeating bone and liquefying muscle, it tentacled up his sides and back, seeping down his hips and through legs that spread loosely to accommodate the weight of another atop him. Tingling at the base of his neck, his head rolled back onto the pillow, Antonio and his hot crisp kisses migrated, burning pleasantly on the skin of a elegant caramel cream neck and the spatula of bone across a broad collar, Romano smelt distinctly of grapes and herbs in a hot dry evening. He smelt of fresh bread baked and drizzled with oil, salted with rocksalt that glimmered mutely alongside dried rosemary. His hair relented the sweet aroma of plums and apricots and nectarines. A veritable fruit salad of carnal want and juicy nectar that tasted so good dripping from his crown over sugary skin. Nerve endings, flooded and alert, raised alongside blushed capillaries and leant a healthy pink glow to the face of man he would ravish. Lovino's eyes fluttered shut. He clawed his nails in the whip-scarred skin on Antonio's back and let blooming lips part in desire. The space between them was dissolving; suddenly the feeble clothes they did war were cruel, hurtful things. Keeping flesh from flesh and heartbeat from heartbeat, Lovino let his singlet be lifted and cast aside, Antonio made swift work with his trousers and his partners. Before he was done, needy arms were reaching for him and pulling him close again. Romano shuddered, he had never felt so protected in his life.

The arms that fenced him in were thick and handsomely muscular. They were skilled at sword wielding and graceful to dance, they walled strong and caring around fears and insecurities and ensured no harm could get in, no weakness could escape. His chest was warm and the steady march of a familiar heartbeat a lullaby Lovi had rested to since before he could remember knowing the word 'need' and what it could possibly mean, even the lips that met his cheeks and anointed his lips with kisses were kind, lips that had spoken him to sleep and assured him and sworn allegiance until the end of time. Antonio had very thin, soft lips, like a petal creased down the centre. They tasted a little like honey chap-stick.

"'Toni." Needing air, Lovino surfaced from the lip-lock first. His breath came in brief drags, his shaking hands traced the smooth high cheeks of the face blurring above him. Every inch of his body that had been kissed was bruising with sensitivity, and the flush leeched down to places untouched as well. Places on his chest, where his nipples hardened and rubbed against Antonio's perfect pecs. To his inner thighs, where his dick was stirring from a slumber and his balls lifted, aching to be fondled. To his scalp, which tingled pleasantly when gentle fingers parted reams of hair.

"Mm?" Antonio blinked a few times, hardly trusting himself to speak. "Are you okay?"

"…" Lovino hesitated, wiggling a hand on Spain's shoulder anxiously. He could feel it, the hand cradling the back of his head was so close! The thumb almost nudging the base of… that place. "Play with this." He flushed and tugged briefly on his hair-curl, before releasing it almost immediately and hiding his face in his partners neck from shame. The sensation from the brief tug had been slight but deep, as though there was a thin chord connected to it, that ran all the way through his core and seemed directly with the head of his cock. It was a puzzlement, this little off limits zone, explored only during the darkest, most shameful nights of masturbation and accidents he preferred not to think about. Bemused, Antonio transferred his weight onto the different arm and reached for it, to give a gentle stroke. The shiver that racked the slight mans body was not small, and shocked the Spaniard realised that the power in this curl was not to be scoffed at.

He swallowed guiltily, perversely aroused, when he thought of all the times he had tugged it when Lovino was a child. Was the effect the same then as now? Judging by the wanton cries and hagged pants drifting from his breast, Antonio decided he could easily make the boy come doing just this. Make him totally give in to the persuasion of hot Spanish blood.

Reflecting on Lovino's cumming made Antonio hot. It really just gave him wild horns. The slick milky substance of pleasure, an ambrosia of bliss and an expression or confirmation of a job well done. Antonio didn't just want to make Lovino cum, he wanted to make the man _come_. The sort of screaming, mind blowing and toe curling orgasm that only ever happened in fantasies. The sort of drawn out, achingly deep orgasm that only ever happened in romance novels. And finally, most importantly, that kind of desperate clinging orgasm, in which the name of your partner of the only language you speak and the concept of drowning in one another's existence and sinking into the depths of mutual desire is the reason for living. And he wanted to feel that accomplishment on his bare stomach. He wanted to taste the exotic delight he had been denied for so long. He wanted to go wild and sink completely into the flesh of his counterpart, locked in the frantic tango of lovemaking forever.

"Lift your hips Lovi." Antonio gave a short sharp snap of his hand on Lovino's thigh. Dragging for breath, the smaller man shifted his weight to his shoulders, lower body rising. Broad hands held the small of his back and belted slim legs around his partner's waist. Something large and firm pressed confidently in the cleave of his behind, whining, he tilted his head back and exposed to Antonio his throat. An offer, a complete subconscious gesture of faithful surrender.

Antonio licked his index finger sloppily and with the same hand, wet finger stuck awkwardly out, brushed a rebel curl from his fore head.

There was a small gap of heavy breathing and waiting, in which the sound of each individuals heartbeat hammered and the lust contained within the room swelled to a vertiginous cusp. In that moment, a hand slithered between them, a finger pressed to Lovino's tight sphincter and a flash of fear strung in Spain's brain. _What if it doest go in_?

But, with a little pressure and a squeak from the subject, it sunk and with it so did all illusion of self control. Letting a low growl, Antonio bent over his beloved, nose pressing to the top of his adams apple, and shoved his finger all the way in. there was little protest, a quick in-out and he added another dry. This time, he earned a whimper and a sharp eye, watering a little with pain, snapped open and regarded him.

"Be gentle, idiot!" a hiss, breathless but no less threatening. Spain pressed his lips together dutifully and closed his eyes, trying to remember…

In his fantasies, this was much easier. A simple matter of dick in dick out dick in and move about. Good for a wank between the sheets, the subject of many a miserable ponder and tantrum, but not really very fulfilling. Because fantasy just couldn't compare to the actual sensation of being naked breast to breast with Lovino Vargas.

The film of sweat between them grew heavier as slowly, Antonio pumped his fingers to prepare. His dick ached terribly, the head smearing viscous precum over the skin on Lovino's behind, and occasionally, without loosing pace in his steady fingering, he dipped his fingertips in and used it to lube. After what seemed like an eternity of this treatment, a thousand lifetimes of the thighs around his hips tightening and Lovino's subtle gasps of pain evening into smooth sighs of pleasure, he found he could spread his fingers widely and freely inside. His partner was ready to be fucked.

"I'm doing it now, Roma."

Slim hands seized the sides of his head and a firm kiss was planted on his crown.

"hurry up then!" was his command. He heeded it without a single second thought, tracing the head of his erection wetly along the approximate place on his body and finding it, that flexing, twitching part into which he eased with and exultant murmur. It was still firm and not particularly unyielding around that one spot, but once the fattest part of his length had intruded and Romano's body laxed, the space within was flawless, as though it had been designed solely to accommodate his dick all the way to his balls. Warm, velvety… there were numerous clichéd words he could use to describe it, but for such a thing, such a deeply wildly primal and base thing, he didn't feel words could do justice. And Lovino, on the other end, thought vacantly of nothing but the feeling of that hard and unyielding something gliding into him, scraping languidly against his trigger and settling at an almost uncomfortable distance within. A startling realisation occurred to him, and just as pink cheeked Antonio went to draw out again, he stopped him, fingers clawing in a demanding grip, eyes wide and glassy.

"Antonio…"

At the sound of his name spilling so sensuously and liquid from otherwise sharp lips, Antonio froze and looked up. Their eyes locked.

"… _you're inside me_."

It was a statement filled with fragile disbelief, almost transparent and delicate, like cellophane. The curtain of the sensate drew wide and allowed the flood of feeling, of every flushed nerve ending pressed to every square inch of skin. Breath, hot and moist… hair, fingers combing and twirling that one lock, that single curl in lazy loops around Antonio's pinky finger. He sucked a breath through his teeth and the two men kissed, chaste but heavy. Steadily, beneath them, the bed slats began to creak and muffled sounds of sex filled the dark space. The television was ignored as the time slots changed, and contestants on _La Ruleta de la Suerte_, trapped inside their neon prison, didn't bother to look beyond the box to the congress taking place on Antonio's bed. The silver scene the screen rendered was a visual dessert, glittery and surreal. Lovino's eyes flickered shut, he was dizzy, and although his partner was cautious and sinuous with his motions, he was yet to strike pleasure into the other with as much force as he had hoped.

It took about a minute of huffing and gentle prodding for Antonio to find the thing he was looking for, withdrawing part way, so he could really grate his tip against the switch that elicited a long, sexy moan from both. It wasn't as good as driving to the hilt, but thrusting shallowly was better than not thrusting at all, and Lovino seemed to _love_ it, an arm cast across his face to hide the shameful contortions of bliss.

"Oh god Spain." He whispered huskily, reverently, with more conviction than he had ever said anything in his life. "Oh, god. That feels so good. Oh, oh, oh…"

"Call me by my name, Lov…" wet slicking kisses explored a oddly hunched chest, if Romano could have seen the way his body had bent in that moment he would have probably wondered how he wasn't keening in agony. "My real name."

"A-Antonio…" a shy eye glanced up from under his forearm. "Antonio. Antoni-ohh!"

Back arching, Lovino's hand flew up top grip the bar on the head of the bed. His face was bared, sweaty tendrils of dark hair clinging to flushed cheeks. The one Spain toyed with was becoming even springier than usual, almost wirey. Braver now he had managed to get his lover into the sex, Antonio resumed sheathing himself the whole way before withdrawing. Lovino didn't notice.

It wasn't long before he came.

A powerful rip of sensation prickling at the nape of his neck and shuddering down his spine, Spain felt it all through his body as well, when muscles fluttered butterfly kisses on his erection and manicured nails dug into his sides. Lovino's toes pointed, his lips parted in a tearful, gasping moan. The muscles clenching his limbs slid to limp strings tying bones, the shudder that racked him as the first rope of cum splattered Spain's stomach thumped the bed briefly against the wall behind them. Content to release now too, Spain allowed his own orgasm and the second thick spurt of Lovino's arrived at the same time as his. Subsequent splutters and dribbles were followed by slight tremors and erotic moans, but for the most part Antonio was to lost to notice, face buried in his lovers neck, hips pistoning slowly as the very last ghost of release deserted him. When it was over, the soft squelch of a softening dick moving inside Romano's body was a comfort. A warm, heady comfort that filled both with thick desire for sleep. Collapsing on top, Antonio caught his breath and managed to sigh quite heavily. He released Lovino's curl, and it drooped limply to the pillow.

"Are you alright?"

"amazing." Voice light and breathy, Lovino allowed his former caregiver to cuddle and kiss. The two sorted a comfortable position, Lovino curled against Antonio's chest, and together they prepared to embrace sleep.

"Cute hair thing you have gong there." Spain mumbled absent mindedly. "It gets all stiff when you get excited. Like an erection in your hair." He petted the limp lock thoughtfully. "heh, a hair-ection. Can I call it that?"

Lovinos scowled without even bothering to open his eyes. "No you may not!"

:

OMAKE

Francis and Gilbert idled on Gilbert's doorstep, gazing over the horizon at the sun rise, feeling mighty pleased with their accomplishments for the evening.

"Do you think he will do it?" Gilbert asked. Francis shrugged.

"Maybe. I don't particularly care." He smiled slyly and twirled a lock of hair around his finger. "But the aim of the game wasn't that, so it's not important."

Gilbert laughed.

"It would be funny though, if he does."

"That it will Gilbert, that it will…"

…

Lovino hesitated, worrying his bottom lip, magic marker firmly gripped in his hand. Francis face swum unwelcomely in his vision, and his request… it hadn't occurred to Romano, spread eagle and in premium rape position, how utterly nonsensical and weird the request was. Fear and panic had been much too dominant for him to really think about it, and he had agreed without a single protest.

"Draw a moustache on Antonio while he sleeps." The bright white tooth grin from between his legs had been terrible, in an aggressively handsome way. "Do this, and I will never harass you like this again. Don't do it, and we will be back."

Francis had stood and pulled on his trousers. "Now, we are going out the window. If I were you, I'd tidy myself up before you go in and see Antonio. Be a good boy, won't you, and do as we say?"

When the men were gone, Romano barely had time between when he had tripped over the coffee table in haste to reach the door and when he leapt behind the sofa before Antonio, alerted to the heavy thunk of shin meeting table, could catch him in such wild disarray. Right up until he had fallen asleep, the dark shadow of the agreement had hovered over his consciousness and only now had he actually paused, to take stock of what was going on.

Why the _fuck_ would France want Lovino to draw on Antonio's face? Really?

The boy glanced at the peaceful, sleeping profile of the man who had loved him to the very hem of the stratosphere the night before, his lashes fluttered, his neck was littered with hickeys. Romano swallowed the lump of emotion welling at the back of his throat and pressed the pen to his lip anxiously, unable to make any sense of it.

And why would anyone need to resort to almost rape, in order to play a simple little prank? Even for France, that was going to far. Really. And if France was known for anything it was being able to go from zero to rape in about three seconds. And as a master of romance and lovey dovey shit emotions, (though Lovi hated to admit it,) the man should have known that by resorting to such crazy measures he was effectively redundifying his own plot. After all, logic dictated that after being in such a terrifying predicament Lovino would be most likely to take flight to the arms of his most trusted person for protection, and turning around only to deface that person whilst they slept seemed like a pretty underhanded and grim thing to do. Even for a Mafioso.

It just didn't make any sense!

The harder Lovino thought about it, the more perplexed he became. Clueless Antonio rolled onto his stomach, the sheets rustled over his body and he loosed a deep grunt of contentment. Lovino smirked.

And then, suddenly, with the force of twenty carcrashes and the American airforce, it hit him. He understood _exactly_ what it was Francis had set out to do.

"That bastard!" he leapt out of bed, nude, and cast the magic marker to the floor. It clattered, and rolled under the bed. Startled, Antonio sat and stared.

"Aha? Waddidido?"

"Not you, you dumbass."

He watched Lovino pull some pants on, but the smaller man was unable to find a shirt so he pulled one from Antonio's drawers instead.

"That dickhead France."

"What? What has France done?"

Antonio's eyes widened when Lovino stalked back to the bedside and jammed his hand into one of the boots lying half under the flouncy white cotton bed skirt, withdrawing a small handheld gun.

"The bastards playing reverse psychology with me." he checked the cartridge and snapped it into the case. "Make me some fucking beans Antonio. When I get back, I'm going to want breakfast."

He was out the door without another word. Antonio still wasn't quite awake, and he still didn't quite believe what had gone on the previous evening. And as for France…

Oh god France!

He jumped out of bed and pursued his lover.

There was nothing in the world more unnecessary than murder first thing in the morning.

.O.

A/N: so I drabbled this randomly upon my arrival home from Genki Con DK 2011, (took me over a week to beta. Heh. XD) because I was so heartily inspired to write spamano it wasn't funny. Totally had the best weekend EVER, and bought shitloads bro you don't even know.

The only unfortunateness was, whilst out walking one morning and taking in the architecture of an utterly glorious church at four-thisty one morning, meeting a drunk itallian who seemed not only unaware of my gender but also had a fettish for pjamas (because that's what I do, I walk around deserted cities at 4.30 am in my pjamas like a badass cunt yo.)

The mother fuck tried to kiss me! and I was all like 'what the shit?"

And he was like "nlah blah blah" in itallian or French or some shit and I was like

ಠ_ಠ

It was invasive.

Also, I totally don't own the rights to hetalia or nothing. If I did, I would be rich enough to sue that fucker for sexual harassment like a potato.


End file.
